Reflections
by muhnemma
Summary: Three characters reflect on Morrigan's ritual and what it will mean for their relationships. Alistair/Amell. Part 2: Alistair.
1. Morrigan

**Morrigan**

When it was over, Morrigan sought out Solona.

It was an irrational act. She had almost decided against it, knowing that Alistair would want to find her and make his apologies. Then she had been engulfed by sudden, inexplicable anger. The fool had a whole lifetime to spend with Solona thanks to _her _actions, whereas she must leave soon and in all likelihood never see her friend again. He could wait.

She found her in the courtyard, sitting cross legged on a small patch of grass and staring up at the sky. The stars were a comfort to her, Morrigan knew. Until she had been recruited into the Wardens, Solona's whole world had been restricted to the narrow confines of the Circle Tower. She was happy to escape what Morrigan had always thought of as a prison, but occasionally she mourned the loss of the only home she had ever known. When the world became overwhelming, and the task ahead of her too daunting, the unchanging sky was the familiar part of her life that she latched on to.

Solona's head turned slightly at the sound of her approach. She caught sight of Morrigan and for a moment there was silence, an uneasy tension that neither seemed sure of how to break. Then Solona smiled at her.

Morrigan almost smirked, but managed to bite it back when she realised that in this situation it could be seen as gloating. What had she really expected from Solona? Tears, hysteria, violent accusations and reprimands? Public displays of emotion weren't part of her nature. Many mistook her distance for aloofness, and Morrigan could see that Solona's innate reservation could easily have turned into that had her life been allowed to run its course. Her coolness did not stem from disdain but from isolation: it was the almost inevitable result of having to lead a broken order in a hostile world because the only other of your kind was unwilling to take control.

Solona silently extended a hand to her. Morrigan hesitated for a second, unable to completely shed the suspicion that she would be yanked roughly to the ground, before taking it. Solona squeezed lightly, almost like a mother trying to silently reassure her child, and tugged gently, urging Morrigan to take a seat next to her. Sitting on the grass she stared down at their entwined fingers, somehow so much more intimate than what she had just done with Alistair.

There was only one thing she could think of to say. She fought against it. It was completely asinine, clichéd, but there was a possibility that it might make Solona feel better about what had happened.

"He loves you."

And as she said it, she couldn't help but remember:

_He fumbled his clothes on in the far corner of the room, fingers made clumsy by trying to dress as quickly as possible without exposing his nakedness to her eyes. The look in his eyes went deeper than guilt, bordering on something that was akin to grief. _

"_Must you wear that ridiculous expression?" she snapped, driven to distraction by the headache pooling behind her eyes and his apparent inability to understand the situation. _

_His eyes were almost surprised as he turned his face to her, as if he had forgotten she was there. Morrigan realised that he was already gone: he was thinking of returning to Solona, of what he would say to make things right between them. "I don't expect you to understand," he said in a voice far colder than she had ever expected to hear from him. "That would require having a heart." _

"I know," said Solona quietly.

"Does that make it easier or harder?"

Solona's lips twitched. "I'll let you know when I figure it out."

"You are taking this remarkably well."

"The ritual was necessary. Getting angry about it would be irrational."

"I have been given to understand that love isn't rational," said Morrigan, raising her eyebrows.

"You have done a lot for me, Morrigan," said Solona, and Morrigan stared at her with barely concealed surprise. Of all the things she had expected Solona to say to her tonight, this was not one of them. Apparently she was not quite through with surprising her, for she continued, "You have given me – and Alistair – a chance of life where before there was only the possibility of death. More than that, you've given us a chance of a life together. Circle mages live a restricted existence, particularly when it comes to love. I _never_ expected to be able to love a man like Alistair."

"Indeed, who could predict such misfortune?" said Morrigan drily.

To her surprise, this elicited a genuine bark of laughter from Solona. "I know you don't understand what I see in him. To be honest," she continued, sobering slightly, "I'm quite glad of that at the moment." Abruptly her back grew rigid and she tilted her head slightly, as if listening to a distant sound. "He's looking for me," she said softly. "He's worried."

"And of course you must go to him," said Morrigan, surprised by the hint of bitterness that tinged her voice.

Solona waved her hand in the direction of the building, apparently dismissing Alistair for the time being. "In a minute. I want to thank you for now everything you have done, in case..." she trailed off, and Morrigan's mind automatically began to suggest endings for that sentence. _In case you disappear before I can talk to you. In case I die. In case you die. _Solona cleared her throat and continued. "In case we don't get the chance to speak before the battle."

Morrigan glanced down at their hands again and said quietly, "I must thank you too, Solona."

"You're welcome. Although," she laughed, "I'm not quite sure what it is you're thanking me for." She sprang lightly to her feet. "Until tomorrow, Morrigan," she said, smiling almost sadly, and turned to find Alistair.

As she watched her leave, Morrigan, like Solona, wondered exactly what it was that she was thankful for.

There were many things to choose from.

Valuing her unique skills despite the frequent and vocal disapproval of Alistair and Wynne. Offering respect when all she had expected was derision or fear. Risking her life to slay Flemeth and secure her grimoire. Mostly, she was grateful for those strange and precious months of her life where Solona had shown her what it was to have a friend, a sister.

The longing for companionship was so strong that she was suddenly seized by an almost overwhelming desire to stay. To forget the inevitable consequences of the ritual she had performed, resign herself to Alistair's idiocy and Oghren's drunkenness, and allow herself to be happy in a relatively normal life.

But no. Morrigan had already mapped out her destiny, and it did not include her friend.


	2. Alistair

**Alistair**

Alistair didn't want to think of Solona. She didn't have any place in this awful, dark ritual. But she came unbidden whenever he closed his eyes, and given that the alternative was staring at Morrigan he gave in and allowed the memories to take him. He remembered their first time after he had finally gathered the courage to ask her to spend the night with him. He remembered soft fingers closing around his trembling hands, guiding them, showing him how to touch her. When she caressed him with lips and fingers he almost blushed, certain that she had somehow reached into his mind and found everything he had been dreaming about for the past month.

He wasn't allowed to take refuge in memories for long. Morrigan's rough hands kept him firmly in the present. There was none of Solona's patience, her gentle understanding of his nerves and inexperience. When Morrigan touched him and he flinched, she sneered at him. When he shied away from her kiss, wanting there to be one part of him that she could not claim, she pushed her fingernails into his shoulders, leaving crescent moons that bled.

When it was over, and he had escaped the dark, stifling bedchamber, he wanted to go straight to Solona. He was halfway to her room when he realised that it was wrong. The thought of going to her straight from Morrigan, the scent of her still clinging to his skin, forced him to change direction and return to his own room. He caught a sleepy servant on the way and ordered hot water for a bath, barely aware of the man's quickly hidden, slightly bemused glanced.

The bath was heaven. He scrunched himself into a ball and sank beneath the water, allowing it to close over his head. It was as calm as he had felt all night, even though the hot water stinging his cuts was a sharp reminder of everything that had passed.

They had done the right thing, he supposed. If Riordan fell before he reached the Archdemon, it would fall to either him or Solona to slay it. He would not allow her to take the final blow, and neither would she allow him to die in her place. If Morrigan's ritual worked, and they managed to fight through Denerim without being felled by darkspawn, their future was assured. He realised with gritted teeth that they should have spared Loghain. Accepting him as a brother and allowing him a hero's death might have been preferable to sleeping with Morrigan and a lifetime of worrying about what would become of the unnatural child they had conceived.

Alone, with nothing to occupy his mind, anger overtook guilt for the first time that night. He was angry with himself for going through with this despicable ritual rather than face death. He was angry with Solona for even approaching him with the idea. He almost wished that Morrigan had come to him first rather than Solona. That way he could have kept the guilt to himself and Solona could have remained blissfully unaware of what had passed, happy and untainted by her role in the sordid arrangement.

But it was far, far easier to take his anger with Solona and direct it at Morrigan. Morrigan who never missed the opportunity to mock and diminish him. Morrigan who couldn't possibly understand the love he shared with Solona. Morrigan who had left him with indelible marks of their dark ritual. As he dried himself off, he glowered at the series of cuts on his shoulders. He briefly toyed with the idea of finding Wynne and asking her to heal them, but the thought of having to explain everything to her made him shudder. But what would he say to Solona? Then again, she wouldn't require an explanation. She would know exactly where they had come from. The thought of how she would feel when her eyes fell on them made his chest hurt.

Dressed, he set out for Solona's room. He knocked on her door. When he received no response he rocked back on his heels, on the verge of retreating to his own room in shame. But he wouldn't hide: _she _had asked him to do this. Instead he tried the handle, relieved when it gave under his hand, and stuck his head into the dark room. "Solona?" he whispered, and then repeated her name in his normal voice when he received no response. He squinted into the gloom, trying to make out her shape in the chair or under the blankets. Unable to see, he opened the door as far as it would go and allowed light from the corridor to flood into the room.

Solona wasn't there.

For a moment he was unspeakably bitter. How could she not be there? Everything he had done tonight was at her command; he had expected her to be waiting for him when it was done. He _needed_ her, needed to lose himself in her and erase everything that had happened. But the anger was a fleeting thing soon replaced by an overwhelming sense that something was wrong. He asked himself how he would feel if he had to sit alone, helpless, knowing that nearby another man held Solona naked in his arms. The sudden surge of guilt was like a bucket of ice water thrown over his shoulders.

Alistair turned abruptly and strode down the corridor, determined to track down Solona and find a way to mend what had been broken.


End file.
